


Before the Empty Glass

by Mertiya



Series: Walking the Mirrors [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sex, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical Realism, Oh my god you're alive sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's reunion, a little more explicit than at the end of The Light in Me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Empty Glass

**Author's Note:**

> And by that summary, I mean I shamelessly wrote smut. This is pretty much just awkward, awkward smut mixed with feels.

            In the stark, white lights of the bathroom, it is impossible not to believe his eyes, impossible not to see the tall, spare figure which has somehow unfolded himself from behind the cold glass.  It’s not a dream; it can’t be a dream, because John can feel those long, cool fingers about his own, turning the gun away from his temple, and he has never imagined Sherlock’s voice (not for lack of trying, but somehow his imagination cannot form the correct resonance, and he always knows it), so the sound of that baritone, almost gentle, almost nonchalant, does more to stop him than the hand does.  _Please.  Point it at something less valuable._

John doesn’t even know what he’s saying, and a small portion of him wonders if he’s dead already, if his mind skipped over the moment where he pulled the trigger (there wouldn’t have been much pain; he’d probably barely have noticed), if he’s dead with Sherlock, but he dismisses the idea, because he can’t believe he’s a good enough man to deserve this kind of instantaneous reward.

            He’s gabbling something, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying, and it doesn’t matter anyway.  Nothing matters except the tall, thin ( _so thin, when was the last time he’d eaten?  God, Sherlock didn’t take care of himself when he was alone_ ) madman in front of him, covered in dust and cobwebs, pale as a corpse, but there.  Alive. 

            His hands are in Sherlock’s collar before he realizes what he’s doing, and he’s dragged Sherlock’s head down.  Their lips meet in a desperate, astonished, painful tangle of teeth and blood and saliva, and _oh God_ , this is the most searingly beautiful thing that has ever happened to John Watson; he feels as if what he has beneath his hands is fragile glass, and it will break if he applies too much pressure, so his fingers fly light and desperate, little fluttering strokes across Sherlock’s face and his shoulders and his hands, feeling the torn, ragged edges of the abused cloth, his sleeves, reduced to ragged strips of cloth, the rough, clotting edges of inflamed cuts along his hands, his arms, his face ( _God, Sherlock, what did you do to yourself?)_ But it doesn’t matter, because there’s no crushed and shattered bone beneath his hands, and there _is_ a pulse, a heartbeat, a rush of blood, not the cold feeling of glass beneath his fingertips, but the warmth of human flesh.

            Sherlock is clearly getting impatient with John’s careful, nervous examination.  “For god’s _sake_ , John, I’m not made of glass, I’m real, I’m here,” he says, and his hands land on John’s arse, pulling him roughly forward between Sherlock’s legs and up against the bathroom counter, hard enough to bruise, but John doesn’t care, because if he bruises, then it’s real, it’s _real_.  “John, _please_.”  Sherlock’s voice is rough with want and lust, and it’s the most glorious thing John’s ever seen, ever felt.

            “Oh, god, yes,” he grins back, and his shaking hands fall on Sherlock’s shirt, and it’s stripped off, the dust and cobwebs coming off in a layer with the clothing, buttons bursting across the white counter, exposing the pale expanse of Sherlock’s chest in front of him. 

            Everything’s moving so quickly, but that’s right, just like everything between them, it’s hard and fast and utterly right, and his hands are on Sherlock’s belt.  Sherlock gasps sharply, blood blooming bright across his cheekbones, and John’s hands are entirely steady as he undoes the buckle and yanks Sherlock’s trousers and pants down, and Sherlock makes a desperate, hissing noise, a little bit like a teakettle, which makes John laugh, and thank god, because there is no way he could make this up.  This isn’t perfect, this isn’t ideal, it’s all elbows and knees and John crushed into the bathroom counter as Sherlock hooks his ankles behind him, and OK, John’s never done this before, and it’s going to be terrible, he just knows it, but you have to try before you can succeed, right?

            He leans forward and takes Sherlock in his mouth.

            Sherlock gasps and groans, hips jerking beneath John, and god, it’s so _large_ ; John almost gags, and he has to pull back right away, dry-heaving.  Sherlock touches his face gently and speaks, his voice shaking.  “You don’t have to do this, John.”

            “I’d really like to, though,” John answers, laughing.  “If you don’t mind that I’ve no idea what I’m doing.”

            “Do you believe I do?  Come now, John—“

            “Trying,” John grunts, and he laughs again at the look on Sherlock’s face before dipping his head and folding his lips around Sherlock’s cock again.  This time he doesn’t try to take in as much, just swirls his tongue in circles around the head, and Sherlock gasps and groans, his heels tightening painfully against John’s back. 

            “Oh god _John_ ,” he manages, and John looks up at him, sucking down a little more, lathing his tongue across the bottom.  It’s not easy to keep his lips around it; he keeps being afraid his teeth are going to scrape across.  Sherlock is looking down at him, his eyes narrowed, the expression on his face halfway between pain and pleasure, and there’s a light in his eyes John has only seen before when he is buried in the middle of a case.  John brings up one hand to curl around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and that’s easier than his lips because he actually has some idea what might feel good.  Sherlock makes a strangled, delicious noise, and John slides his other hand up Sherlock’s thigh. 

            Sherlock’s head thuds onto the mirror behind his head, and John looks up with concern, but one of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands threads into his hair, applying gentle pressure.  “ _Yes_ ,” he hisses through his teeth, and John figures he must be doing something right at least.

            As soon as he starts to find a rhythm, of course, Sherlock shifts, and John starts choking and dry-heaving again (he’s gaining a definite respect for past girlfriends), but Sherlock holds still and strokes the back of his neck until he can continue.  And this whole thing is so surreal, and yet so perfect, sucking Sherlock off with the discarded gun (safety back on, of course) lying on the counter beside him. 

            Time turns liquid, the shifts and folds of Sherlock’s body a symphony of exquisite movement beneath his hands.  John is desperate to absorb everything about him, the taste of him, salty with a trace of dust; the feeling of his thigh-muscles quivering beneath him; the way his cock feels, tight-stretched and turgid with blood in John’s mouth; the gentleness in his hands, ( _oh god_ ), he’s trying so hard not to clutch, not to hurt John, but his heels are desperate to pull John closer than ever, and John is definitely going to have some oddly-placed bruises in the morning.

            And then, Sherlock’s tightening around him even more, gasping out his name; he’s coming, and John tries to swallow, but it doesn’t really happen, and Sherlock’s come spatters all across the counter as John sputters and gulps for breath.  Sherlock breathes deeply, his heels finally relaxing against John’s back, and John leans forward, letting his head rest in Sherlock’s sticky, naked lap, even though he’s almost painfully hard by now.

            Sherlock’s hands stroke across his hair; John listens to the blood thrumming through his femoral artery.  For a long, sleepy moment, he thinks they might just stay like this for the next few hours.

            But then Sherlock sits up with a groan and slides off the counter, reaching for John’s belt.

            “You don’t have to…” John says faintly, but they both know his protestation is more form than substance.

            “But you want me to, John,” Sherlock says, and that isn’t the response he should be giving, is it?  “Don’t you?”

            One slim hand slides down the front of John’s pajamas, brushing across the top of his cock.  “ _Christ_ ,” John gasps.  “ _Yes._   I want you, _you bloody nutter_ , oh _Christ_ , _please_.”

            There’s so much that he wants; he wants to bury himself inside Sherlock, fuck him inside out just to reassure himself that Sherlock exists, that he’s here, but he knows that’s not happening tonight, not for a significant amount of time, till both of them are a little more experienced in this particular regard.  _Jesus,_ was Sherlock—

            _Did he just…_

            “Did you just,” John gulps as his pajamas land on the floor, and Sherlock pushes him back against the counter, kneeling in front of him.  “Were you—have you ever done this—“

            “I have just lost my virginity, if you want to be tiresomely technical about it,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.  “John, surely you know I attach no particular _value_ to that attribute?”

            “I, I would’ve assumed, but, I mean…” 

            “John?”

            “Um?”  John’s voice comes out quite strangled now; Sherlock is kissing down his stomach, hands trailing upward along his naked legs, very obviously announcing his intention for both of them to meet in the middle.

            “Do be quiet,” Sherlock says, quite gently, and he kisses the end of John’s cock.

            John makes a very short noise which might be classified as a scream, which is a bit embarrassing, really, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on this, because Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him and then closes his lips around the head, mimicking John’s actions from a moment before, and John is lost.

            There’s nothing but heat and roaring and _oh Christ that mouth_ , those _hands_ , and it just isn’t fair that Sherlock is better at this than he is, although, admittedly, he may be somewhat biased.  Sherlock doesn’t dry-heave, but he does pause, and those pauses do nothing but heighten John’s arousal (if that’s even possible), every muscle trembling with the effort not to move.  His body wants to shut his eyes, but there is _no way_ John is going to take his eyes off Sherlock now, still fearful that he’ll implode into shards of glass and starlight.  He’s got one hand in Sherlock’s hair, the other braced against the counter, trying to hold himself upright.

            There’s a waterfall of noises in his ears, broken syllables and short gasps, and it takes him entirely too long to realize that he’s the one making them.  “Christ, _Sherlock_ , you—beautiful, mine, _oh god like that yes please please_ , never letting you go again, don’t you dare, _Christ yes_ , don’t you dare leave me again, _Sherlock_ , Sherlock, I swear I’ll never forgive you…”

            His eyes lock with Sherlock’s grey ones, and _god_ , there’s so much emotion swirling in those depths, it’s all too much, and John comes with a shout, not ready, not braced, not even _expecting_ it; Sherlock doesn’t even try to swallow, and John’s come splashes across his face and chest.

            John slides bonelessly down the counter and wraps his arms around Sherlock, because he is not ever letting this man go again.  “ _Don’t_ do that to me again,” he says finally, and Sherlock kneels in front of him, tips his face up and kisses him.

            “No, I won’t.  I will never leave you, John,” he says earnestly, and John sees Sherlock’s eyes flicker toward the discarded gun.

            “I love you, you nutter,” John says mutinously and wonders if he’s said too much, because there is a strange, crushed, haunted look in Sherlock’s eyes, and John can see himself reflected in them.

            “Yes,” Sherlock whispers, and he pulls John close, tight into his arms.  “Yes, John, _please_.”  His voice is raw and painful and most certainly pleading, and even if John isn’t entirely sure what he’s asking for, he knows he’ll do his best to give it.

            They lie entangled on the bathroom floor for several more minutes, before John plucks at Sherlock’s hair and whispers something about bed and sleeping and wonders dreamily what his bruises will look like in the morning.  It’s probably too much to hope for a heart-shaped bruise (and _god_ that would be ridiculously sentimental), but he loves the idea of them, the fundamental rainbow-colored testament to the reality of this night, the reality of _this man_.

            They stumble to their feet, laughing together, moving toward the bedroom.  At the door to the bathroom, Sherlock pauses, looking back, and John follows his gaze.  It’s a strange trick of the light, but the shadows highlighting their pale, ghostly reflections look like thin lines of red binding the two of them together.


End file.
